


Possession

by Kweh



Series: In My Veins [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angelic Possession (Supernatural), Canon-Typical Violence, Castiel Possessing Dean Winchester, Consensual Possession, Episode: s04e01 Lazarus Rising, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-04
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:47:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27880989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kweh/pseuds/Kweh
Summary: Castiel does not want to leave. In another story, Castiel might have the strength to pull away and seek out another vessel. This is not that story.Then you must say yes.Yes.Castiel falls.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Series: In My Veins [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2044270
Comments: 102
Kudos: 234





	1. Under His Skin

Castiel is tired. Exhaustion pulses through every fragment of their being and it the very core of themself. Their wings, singed with hellfire and reeking of sulfur, drag behind them as Castiel carries the precious human soul free and out into the open air. Eternity stretches painfully before and behind for a moment before Castiel refocuses back onto this singular instant.

Pride. Love. Castiel feels the emotions radiating from him and knows that Heaven will tear them from them when they return, so Castiel lives a single eternity with Dean Winchester’s soul.

_You are the Righteous Man_ , Castiel thinks carefully when the weak and tortured soul can only form question after question, pounding against Castiel’s grip.

_Where is Sam? Sam. Sam. Sam._ The name repeats in time with the beat of Castiel’s grace and Castiel pulls Dean Winchester closer and whispers to him that his brother is alive.

Rebuilding a human body takes forever and an instant as Castiel stitches together cells from stardust, part upon part. They memorize the curve of Dean Winchester’s ribs as Castiel locks each one into place over his lungs and the slick smooth surface of his intestines as they wind them back into the open cavity of Dean’s body. Castiel breathes flesh onto him and wraps him into the clothes he’d worn when he died. Castiel _knows_ him. Castiel loves him. From the deepest core of his soul where it presses against Castiel’s fingers to the highway of nerves curving through his spine and branching across his body like wings.

_Your body is rebuilt. It’s time for me to leave you._

_No. No don’t._

_I can’t keep you in my grip forever._

_Please._ Castiel presses the soul down into the body and Dean scrambles and fights against it. The force of Castiel’s power flattens the space around them and the flesh of Dean’s arm burns with Castiel’s touch when he grips him. Castiel lifts one wing to cover the still closed eyes from the light. _Don’t leave me._

Castiel does not want to leave. In another story, Castiel might have the strength to pull away and seek out another vessel. This is not that story.

_Then you must say yes._

_Yes._

Castiel falls.

* * *

Dragging yourself out of the grave has to be about the worst thing Dean has ever done and he once ripped someone’s lungs from their body while Alastair threatened to carve his spine out one vertebrae at a time if he punctured either of them.

Actually, that had been a pretty good day. He likes his spine.

Dean spits up soil and gags on the sour aftertaste of a worm he’d bitten down on when it had gotten into his mouth and drags himself to his feet to look around. It looks like a bomb went off with his grave as ground zero.

Something is watching him. He can feel the sensation in his bones, hunter instinct making his turn in a slow careful circle to stare out at the wide expanse of destroyed trees trying to spot something. Anything. There’s nothing there, but the itch of eyes on him doesn’t go away.

He forces himself to walk away from the safety of the grave and hopes that whatever is following him waits until he has a weapon in his hand before showing itself. Dean’s been alive for a few minutes and he desperately wants to stay that way.

The gas station he finds is empty, so he breaks in, and stumbles immediately toward the water bottles. It tastes disgusting. Oily and slick as he swallows it down and he puts the bottle down with a twist of his mouth and smacks his lips. At least the dirt taste is gone.

_Sodium hydrogen carbonate_ , a voice whispers behind him and Dean whips around and slams his shoulders into the wall.

“The hell?” he rasps, grinding his teeth from the pain and sucking in air until it passes.

When the world settles back into whatever is passing as the new normal, Dean spots the newspaper and grabs it to stare at the date. That’s something he can wrap his head around, right? Dates and times and the steady tick of a clock and not a ring of bomb blasted trees and a voice whispering science class vocab into his ear.

He’s been dead for four months. Only four months? God, he feels stretched and worn thin at the edges thinking about it.

He walks over to the mirror and sink and starts pulling at his clothes—squeezing his eyes shut for a moment against the memory of claws and teeth tearing the flesh from his bones—and finds nothing but unmarred flesh where those wounds should be. He’s healthier than he was before Hell. Except, no, there on his arm, pink freshly healed burns in the shape of a hand print. It’s ugly and tender to the touch and Dean pulls his sleeve back down as carefully as possible to avoid touching it.

Looking at it too long makes his chest ache.

He needs answers. Sam must have done something to get him back, which means he needs to track down his brother. The register still has cash in it. It might be enough for gas or food later. He’s not hungry yet even though he feels like he probably should be. It’s been four—no, forty— _four_ months since the last time he ate anything.

The TV to his left clicks on with a hiss of static and the light from outside is bright enough that when he turns to shut it off, he can see the shadow of wings on the wall behind him.

Dean’s breath catches in his throat and he braces for an attack that never comes, his eyes watering as his forces them to stay open until he can’t anymore and he dips his chin down and squeezes them shut against the pain. When he looks up again, they’re gone.

Shaken, he pockets the cash and grabs the grocery bag of supplies he's gathered, rounds the counter and shoves his way back out into the sunlight. There’s a payphone and he has the change to use it.

He can call Sam.

He could have called Sam if Sam hadn’t disconnected his damn number. Dean tries to remember another phone number and calls Bobby instead. Unfortunately, Bobby has the good sense not to believe a man that’s been dead for months is calling him on the phone, but he answered, which means he’s still at the salvage yard and there’s a car parked a few yards away from the phone booth.

He has a plan.

“Bobby will know what to do,” he says into the silent vehicle a few minutes later and he watches the flicker of limbs and faces— _is that a god damn deer?_ —and feathers in the rear view mirror. It looks like they’re sprouting from his own body and there’s a high pitched whining in his ear that he could almost dismiss as tinnitus if the radio hadn’t just turned on and started spitting static at him. The windows are vibrating and Dean feels like he’s about to burst apart at the seams. He drums his fingers on the wheel and twitches his shoulders back. “Can we not with the hallucinations right now? I need to drive.”

Everything stops. Dean puts the car in drive and wipes the fear sweat off his face with the sleeve of his shirt.

* * *

Bobby has the good sense to try and drive a silver knife into Dean’s lungs as soon as he walks through the door.

“Bobby, it’s me!” he yells, dodging the blade and grabbing his arm. The fight leads them both further and further into the house and Dean’s certain Bobby is trying to corral him towards a devil’s trap somewhere. “If I were a revenant or a shapeshifter, could I do this—with a silver knife?”

The knife has been sharpened recently and slices cleanly into his flesh, blood welling up and dripping down into the inside of his elbow. Something unfurls in his chest and presses against his ribs. Bobby hauls him into a hug and Dean sinks into it and squeezes his eyes shut.

“What do you remember?”

Dean lies. Or, rather, carefully leaves out the forty years of memories he’s gained since the last time he stood in this house. It’s easier. He doesn’t want to see the pity in Bobby’s eyes and the important part, the whatever got him out, that’s missing. Like his brain won’t let him remember. He honestly doesn't remember being pulled from Hell and when he tries to remember, all he can think of is black wings and heat pouring down his throat. Which makes no damn sense. As soon as he has a chance, he changes the subject to Sam. Because he knows Bobby wouldn’t pull him out. Bobby has the good sense to drink his grief away.

“I think this thing followed me to the fill-up joint after it dragged me out,” Dean explains as he tugs his shirt free to show Bobby the burn on his arm, and then adds carefully, “or rode me out.”

He doesn’t admit that he thinks it might still be there under his skin. Waiting for something. He can’t consider that possibility yet, so his mind shies away from it like a horse afraid of its own shadow.

“You think Sam made a deal.”

Dean looks steadily at him and straightens his shirt.

“It’s what I would have done.”

“Clean up and then we’ll see if we can track him down,” Bobby instructs and he draws back and puts space between them, sucking air in between his teeth. “I’m gonna… look something up.”

The smile he aims at Dean doesn’t reach his eyes.

* * *

He finds some of his clothes folded up in a drawer in one of the spare bedrooms. It’s not really his bedroom because Dean’s never thought of anywhere as home, but it’s so good to have roots. Somewhere he knows he can fall back to. He locks the bathroom door, just in case, and starts to peel the dirt and sweat caked clothes from his body.

Halfway through his shower, he realizes the cut on his arm from Bobby's knife is gone. As if the flesh had knit itself back together when he wasn’t looking. His hands shake and he stumbles out from under the water and trips on the lip of the tub. He catches himself on the edge of the sink. It cracks under the force of his grip and a piece breaks away and falls to the floor. He goes down onto his knees with it, his hand bloody from where it scraped against the broken porcelain.

_Stop injuring us, Dean._

The world turns sideways around him and the scrape on his palm fades away. He pushes his hand through his hair and stands back up, catching his own gaze in the mirror. Something is looking back at him from behind his own eyes.

It’s gone when he blinks. Dean stares at himself and tries to calm the pounding in his chest.

“What the hell did you do, Sam?”

Bobby raps on the door a second later.

“Heard something crash. You okay, Dean?”

Dean chafes a little under the worry in Bobby’s voice.

“Yeah, just, uh, tripped. I’m good, Bobby.”

* * *

Bobby tells him he gets to replace the sink, but lets the incident slide with a worried look and a finger of whiskey pressed into his still trembling fingers. He lets Dean get away with that sign of weakness too and claps a hand to his shoulder and Dean loves him so much. It's enough to make Dean settle back into himself and he throws back the drink.

“Ugh, what was in that stuff?” he asks. It tastes worse than the water he’d drunk in the fill-up station.

“Whiskey,” Bobby growls at him. “Some of my best stuff.”

Dean’s mouth twists up in a grimace and he puts the glass down onto the table.

“Whatever, let’s just find him.”

Sam’s in fucking Pontiac. Which is so close to where Dean was buried that he probably could have walked to whatever motel he’s holed up in if he’d just known where to go. If Dean hadn’t already thought his brother was involved in his resurrection, he’d be dead sure of it now.

* * *

“So what’d it cost?” Dean demands from the corner where he’s put himself so he doesn’t put his fist through Sam’s teeth.

“The girl?” Sam asks with a grin as he hauls his boots on and starts lacing them. “I don’t pay, Dean.”

“That’s not funny, Sam,” he snaps and all the emotion he’s struggling to contain for the last few hours let loose and that’s familiar and a much more comfortable place to be than the fear. He pushes Sam with his words and shouts and finally gives in and grabs him, shaking him a little in his anger and finally, finally, Sam breaks. Sam didn’t resurrect him. Couldn’t. So he’s been hunting Lilith instead. At least their family is well adjusted.

“I was checking out demons in Tennessee and out of nowhere they took a hard left, booked it up here,” Sam explains and Dean’s hope that finding Sam would explain something—anything—shrivels away into nothing. He exhales shakily through his nose and lets the conversation happen around him until a hand grabs his shoulder, shaking him a little.

“Yeah, what?”

“How you feeling?” Bobby asks. Dean looks out the windows and sees wings curl around his body like they're trying to protect him from something and the shadow of a blank face floats at his shoulder in the reflection. Trying to focus on it makes the space behind his eyes ache. He wonders if Bobby would see it if he looked and if it will be him or Sam that's going to kill him when they find out what’s inside him. Dean swallows and looks pointedly away. He doesn't want to make either of them kill him. He doesn't want to die.

“Bobby, how many times do I have to prove I’m me? I’m fine.”

* * *

Dean sits down on Pamela’s right and beats a rhythm against the table while he waits for everyone else. Pamela smirks at him, flirtatious and easy as she sits up and throws her hair back behind her shoulder.

“Easy on the wood. This’ll be over in a couple of minutes,” she assures and Dean grins back. He’s having some of the worse days of his second life, but he’s oh too happy to let her do anything she wants if she keeps looking at him like that. “I need to touch something our mystery monster touched.”

Her fingers slide up the inside of his thigh. Dean jerks back.

“Pretty sure he didn’t touch me there.”

He has to force himself not to pull away from her hand when she touches the burn. It still aches a little, like whatever burrowed into him has decided to leave it there instead of healing it like every other injury he’s gotten since coming back. Her hand feels like a violation. He almost tells her to go back to trying to touch his dick.

Pamela straightens up in her chair and starts to chant. Dean trembles with the call, his body going cold and hot and it is inside him and he can feel it trying to curl away from her call. He grips Sam’s hand and leans forward, gasping as the world goes hazy and bright and words pour from his mouth but he can’t hear them, can’t see the room, everything is gone but the anchor of Sammy’s hand.

“Dean?” Sam sounds like he’s talking through a thick wall. Wings beat through the air and heat tears through him and there’s light rushing over him like water, burying him and blocking out everything else in the room. Gentle hands holding something deep under his bones and he gasps.

_Dean. Tell her to stop. I don’t want to harm her._

“S-sssttop,” Dean slurs as he’s pulled back up and awareness slams him back into his own body. He wrenches away from Pamela’s hand and stands up. The chair clatters across the floor.

Bobby and Sam are looking at him like he’s possessed and Dean wonders what he said—what _it_ said—with his voice while he was under.

“Castiel,” Pamela says slowly from her chair, feeling out each sound in her mouth as she says them and she’s looking at Dean like she knows exactly what he’s carrying around in his veins. Dean escapes out of the room and slams his way out of the house towards the car.

“Dean?” Sam yells behind him, bursting out the door a second later. “Dean!”

He grabs Dean by the shoulder and it’s only because Dean wants him too that he turns and faces his brother.

“You saw what happened in there, Sam,” he says. “Something followed me up.”

“We don’t know that,” Sam assures him hurriedly, his eyes blown wide with panic. “You’re not possessed, Dean. You can’t be. We checked.”

“Then what is it, Sam? How do you explain that?”

The front door opens and Dean watches Bobby start down toward them. He wonders if they’ll try to kill him in the middle of the street and flicks his eyes to the left and right, looking for the best direction to go.

“All right, we’ve got a name,” Bobby says and he and Sam exchange a look like they’re having a conversation around him. Dean tilts his head watching their body language and trying to read an attack before it comes. “Let’s head back to Pontiac.”

“That’s it?” Dean demands, forcing the hysteria in his voice to make him sound angrier than he really is. “What the hell did I say in there?”

Sam grimaces.

“You told Pamela not to look at your face.”

* * *

They stop for food at a diner in Pontiac. Bobby says he’s going up to his room and asks Sam to bring him something up when they’re done.

“Dean, you gonna order?”

“Uh,” Dean stares at the menu for a few seconds and then up at the waitress. Her face flickers in his vision and he grunts, looking away. He shoves the menu away. “Nothing.”

Sam tips his head in concern and waits until she’s walked away before leaning towards him.

“You haven’t eaten anything, Dean. You sure you’re okay?”

“Yes, I’m fine,” Dean snaps back and Sam backs away, putting his hands up, palms facing out.

“We still have no clue what we’re dealing with,” Sam says conversationally after a few awkward minutes have passed and he's put his hands back down on the table and Dean relaxes a little at the attempt at normalcy. He knows what’s going to happen when they get back to Bobby’s, but he wants to pretend everything is fine and this is just another case until then.

“You got any ideas?” Dean asks.

“Those demons I followed to town. Let’s go find them. Someone’s gotta know something.”

Dean’s about to ask him how he expects to find these demons when the waitress brings Sam his plate and sits down in the chair at the end of their table. Dean looks over at her and her face doesn’t just flicker, it twists and rots away to expose the thing underneath.

“I’ll never get used to how ugly you sonuvabitches are,” Dean says with a grin and Sam looks startled. Dean can’t see it, but he assumes she flickers those ugly black eyes at him because he’s suddenly tense in his seat and ready to attack her at a moment’s notice. The guy sweeping the floor on the other side of the room locks the door.

“Mind your tone with me, boy. I’ll drag you back to hell myself,” the demon under the waitress' skin snarls.

Sam starts to stand up, but Dean holds up a hand. John used to do that with him and he’s grateful Sam still remembers their training and drops back into his seat. It doesn’t stop him from continuing to glare daggers into her head.

“No, you won’t,” he says and when she dares to question him, Dean’s happy to turn his own fears right around on her. Whatever dragged him out of the pit isn’t something she’s going to dare piss off, but Dean already knows that thing isn’t some unknown entity sitting safely a few states away, it’s pressing up against his tongue and coiling up to rip her apart for threatening him. The knowledge of it sends a thrill of heat up his spine and that’d be a new and alarming sensation four months ago, but Dean’s been trained for this. And the thing riding him is just as willing to destroy her.

“I’m going to reach down your throat and rip out your lungs,” the demon says hatefully and Dean leans forward slowly, smiling challengingly and waiting for her to move.

When she doesn’t, he reaches out and grabs her face with his left hand. Power rips up through his body and pours out of his fingers into her skin. She lights up from the inside, white hot as her eyes and mouth widen with a scream. Sam yells something, but Dean’s already done and the demon collapses to the floor, eyes and mouth burned out. Sam leaps up as the other demon comes at them and catches them by surprise with the knife through his chest. The last one burns out from the inside without Dean even needing to touch them and he stares at the bodies.

“What the hell are you?” Dean asks.

Sam grabs him by the arm and hisses that they need to get out of here and Dean can feel him trying to drag him towards the door, but Dean isn’t moving. The presence is hovering around him protective and full of righteous anger and Sam is straining a little with the force he’s using to try and usher his brother out of the restaurant.

“Dean,” Sam says a little louder, a little more insistently. “Dean, you’re glowing.”

“Huh?” Dean blinks and the thing—Castiel?—pulls back into some space between his liver and kidneys.

There’s only silence in his head, so Dean lets Sam move him finally and they leave.

* * *

While the boys are down getting food, Bobby wishes he had a few more of his books with him. Hopefully he and Sam can get Dean back to the scrapyard and they can get Dean downstairs and locked up until they can figure out what the hell is riding him. Bobby isn’t a fool. He’s been to plenty of séances doing this job and that thing had surfaced up out of Dean when Pamela had tried to put in a call and nearly blinded them all with a light show. If Dean hadn’t pulled away from Pamela, Bobby’s confident they’d probably be dead and Dean would be walking around with that thing using his body like a meat suit.

They need to exorcise him soon. Before it gets enough power to take him over.

The key turns in the lock—so much for privacy in his own room—and Dean shoves his way through it looking tense with Sam hot at his heels. Well, shit.

“What the hell was that, Dean?” Sam demands as soon as the door is closed. Bobby stands up and reaches out to grab Sam before he takes a swing at Dean who’s clenching his jaw and staring up at Sam, daring him silently to attack him.

“I don’t know,” Dean grinds out.

“Bullshit!”

“Easy, son,” Bobby says and he hauls Sam around to look at him. “What happened?”

“There were demons at the restaurant, Bobby,” Dean answers and Bobby looks sharply at him. “I killed them.”

“With the knife?” he asks. It’s a stupid question and he knows it, but he wants to hear them confirm it. Sam wouldn’t be ready to throw him across the room if that had been the case.

“He lit them up from the inside,” Sam spits out. “Bobby, we can’t wait until we get back. We have to do it now.”

“Do what?” Dean demands and Bobby groans. This is exactly what he didn’t want to happen. A big blow up here is going to make Dean run and then they’re gonna be chasing him down for who knows how long. “You gonna exorcise me, Sam?”

Sam grinds his teeth and says, “Yeah, Dean. Because you’re possessed.”

“Couple of hours ago you were saying I wasn't," Dean throws back at him.

"That was before you lit up a couple of demons from the inside with your hands!"

“I’m still me, damn it!” Dean yells. Bobby wonders if he should put himself between Dean and the windows.

Sam breaks out of his hold and launches himself at Dean, grabbing the collar of his shirt and pulling him up. Bobby braces for the impending brawl and how he’s going to break it up. The TV behind him on the dresser snaps on and fills the room with static and as he takes a step toward Dean and Sam, something shoves the both of them away from Dean. All of the windows and mirror on the ceiling shatter. Bobby lifts his arms up to protect his face from the glass.

When he lowers them and looks at Dean, the thing wearing his son's face is standing there, head tilted at him, Dean’s green eyes lit up with power and staring into him like he's a particularly interesting insect.

Sam lurches back up from the floor and pulls the knife out and Bobby flinches, afraid he’s going to stab Dean, but that thing grabs Sam by the arm without even blinking and reaches up to press two fingers to his forehead. Sam crumples to the floor and it watches him go down and then turns that laser focus back on him.

“Who the hell are you?” Bobby demands.

“Castiel." It’s almost Dean’s voice, but there’s a deep growl to it, like the thing is speaking from the back of Dean’s throat. Castiel walks over to him and Bobby tries to throw a punch. “Dean and I need to talk. Alone."

Castiel crouches down in front of Bobby and reaches out to press his fingers to Bobby’s head. Bobby tries to flinch away, but Castiel just keeps coming at him. He’s unconscious before he hits the floor.

* * *

Castiel stays crouched for a moment. This is not how he—yes, that will do, _he_ —wanted his introduction to go, but he had been weak after escaping from hell, still injured, and he hadn’t dare return to heaven for healing with his brothers and sisters. Not until he had an explanation. It was easy to fit himself in the spaces between Dean’s cells and bask in the radiance of his soul to rest. When Dean was most open, Castiel had tried to reach out and speak to him, but he'd been clumsy and he hadn’t expected Dean’s fear and suspicion to force him back down, and he hadn’t wanted to do this. Taking over and smothering Dean’s personality with his own is not what he wants.

He reaches inside of their body and pulls Dean’s mind back gently with a whispered apology.

“What the hell are you?” Dean’s voice erupts from their mouth.

“I’m the one who gripped you tight and raised you from perdition.”

Dean’s anxiety over the words coming out of his own mouth without his control threatens to expel Castiel completely from them and he holds tightly onto their shared body with a pair of his wings.

“What did you do to Sam and Bobby?”

“They’re alive.”

Castiel watches as Dean reaches out with their arm and feels for a pulse on Bobby’s neck. It flutters against their fingers and Dean exhales in relief and stands them up.

“What are you?”

“I’m an angel of the Lord,” Castiel answers and he reaches out with his grace and pulls lighting from the clouds to light up the sky outside. The flash makes a pair of his wings appear on the wall and he stretches them out so the shadows of them appear in Dean’s line of sight. Awe radiates from Dean's soul and Castiel feels pride for a second time.

“Why would an angel rescue me from hell?”

Castiel tilts their head and closes their eyes. They snap back open under Dean’s command and Castiel frowns, feeling the emotions prickling at the edges of his being from Dean’s soul where it touches him.

“You don’t think you deserve to be saved.”

He tastes the guilt in their throat and feels Dean swallow.

“I sure as hell don’t deserve you riding me around like a puppet.”

“An angel cannot possess a human unless they consent to it.” Dean makes a sound of derision. “You asked me not to leave you and I… I did not want to.”

“So what, I’m stuck with you now?”

Castiel is quiet for a very long time, thinking. He feels Dean’s soul nudging at the corona of his being and reluctantly pulls the tendrils of his grace from Dean’s limbs.

_God commanded me to raise you, but I chose to stay with you_ , he says, pushing the words into Dean’s mind and releasing his mouth. _I can find another vessel and return to you if you ask me to._

Dean hesitates before asking, “Why do you want to stay?”

Castiel answers immediately.

_Because I love you. I held your soul in my hands and you asked me not to leave. I am yours now, Dean, and I will not abandon you._


	2. The Witnesses

“An angel?”

“That’s what he says—said.” Dean waves his hand through the air and makes a face. It’s two parts irritation and one part emotional constipation. “Whatever.”

Sam watches his brother pace the motel room. Ruby’s knife is still laying in the middle of the floor where he’d dropped it when Castiel knocked him out. Bobby’s sitting on the edge of the bed, but Sam’s barely paying attention to him. He’s still trying to wrap his head around the story Dean’s telling them. Castiel, actual very real Angel of the Lord, pulled Dean from Hell, remade his body, and then shoved him back into it.

Castiel also apparently shoved himself in there too. Not that Sam’s going to word it exactly like that to Dean. Yet.

Dean has tried to explain, faltering and fumbling through the words, getting sidetracked with every question Sam asks. Dean’s at least hedged around explaining that angels need consent to take a vessel, unlike demons, and that he’s very much still in control.

Except for the two times Sam’s seen him very much not in control.

He feels like there’s something else he’s missing about this from the way Dean dodges around with his words, avoidant and angry, shying away from a straight answer when Bobby asks why Castiel made him his vessel.

Whatever the real reason, Dean’s still standing there alive and breathing and Sam wants to believe a good thing has happened. Angels are servants of God and one saved his brother.

“And it’s—he’s possessing you?” he asks, wanting to make sure he understands this.

Dean spins around and throws his arms out, glowering at him.

“Do I look possessed?”

Sam wobbles his head back and forth, scrunching his face up trying to find an answer that won’t make Dean’s hackles raise further.

“I mean… you kind of said he was talking to you, so, uh,” he answers and he knows it’s the wrong thing to say because Dean twists away from him, all teeth and angry shoulders, and stalks into the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind him.

“Nice job,” says Bobby.

“What am I supposed to say, Bobby?” he says lowly. “You didn’t see him in the diner, okay. He lit up like a Christmas tree—the way he took out those demons was…”

Righteous fury. Like something out of a Renaissance painting. Except for all the denim.

Bobby nods, conceding the point, but Sam can see him chewing his words. Probably a little more carefully than Sam has so far.

“No, but I saw that thing before it laid hands on me. This isn’t your momma’s harp strumming angel if it really is one. It means business and if Dean’s got one riding him—”

“Really, Bobby?” Dean yells from behind the door.

“—then we’re gonna have to figure this out real quick,” he finishes and then he looks at the glass still scattered across the room and raises his eyebrows in Sam’s direction. “We might want to think about getting out of here soon.”

That’s something all three of them can agree on.

* * *

Dean drives them back to Bobby’s while Sam looks at his phone and pretends there’s something interesting on the screen. It’s mostly old emails from his college friends who he stopped replying to in May and a couple messages from Jo that have already been answered. Then there’s the missed call from Ruby. He’s staring at it when Dean asks him about her and he snaps the phone shut guiltily. The lie comes naturally, but it still eats at him when the conversation falters again. He rests his head on the back of the seat and stares out the window at the trees.

“So, we just gonna sit and ignore each other the whole ride?” Dean demands suddenly.

“I don’t really—” he sighs, reaching up to rub at the bridge of his nose. Conversations with Dean are like trying to stroll through a minefield sometimes and every single one they’ve had in the last several hours makes him feel like he’s talking to a nuclear bomb. “This is a lot. You were dead yesterday, okay. Really dead. And now you’re… not. And it wasn’t even me that did it.”

“Yeah, well, how do you think I feel?”

Sam twists a little on the bench to face his brother, pulling his elbow up onto the backrest. If Dean wants to talk then Sam’s more than happy to do it.

“It’s kind of amazing. What’s it even like being possessed by an angel?”

“He’s not possessing me,” Dean protests yet again and Sam nearly bitches him out for it because semantics about Dean’s level of awareness or whatever don’t really mean much when he’s still got some sort of entity riding shotgun in his body.

“Sure, Dean,” he settles for instead. “So what is he doing if you’re still here and why’s it not possession? Is it an angel thing or a—” he bites that question back and then asks excitedly, “Can I talk to him?”

“No!” Dean answers defensively.

“Why not?”

“I’m driving ninety-seven down US-20 in the middle of the God damn night, Samantha, and I’m pretty sure Cas can’t drive.”

Sam’s eyebrows shoot up and he chokes back a laugh.

“You gave him a nickname?”

“Shut your pie hole.”

Dean leans over and twists the volume knob on the tape deck up, effectively ending the conversation.

* * *

Once they’re back at Bobby’s a few hours later and Dean’s pulled a couple of beers, handing one of them to Sam like a peace offering, Sam decides to broach the subject again.

“I know we asked why Castiel is possessing you—” he holds his hands up when Dean opens his mouth to protest, “—but why did he save you in the first place?”

Dean settles back against the counter and tips the bottle into his mouth, taking a long pull, only to grimace around the mouthful before swallowing it.

“God commanded it,” he answers and Sam can see and hear how much he doesn’t believe it, parroting an answer he’s gotten from someone else—Castiel?—derision dripping from every syllable. “Dude, shut up.”

“I didn’t say anything,” Sam protests.

“Not you, Sam,” Dean says and he jerks his head slightly to the side like he’s motioning to someone standing next to him, which is—okay.

“He’s talking to you right now?” Dean doesn’t look at him, scowling at thin air and shaking his head fiercely. “Dean?”

His brother shifts back and forth, nervous energy skittering through him as he glances out the window and into the yard.

“If—If God really exists than what the hell does he want with me?” The words burst out of Dean with a toss of his head and wide sweep of one hand through the air. “Why do I deserve to get saved over everybody else down there?”

Sam clutches the bottle in his hand a little tighter and walks over to Dean, putting himself into his field of vision, so he’s forced to look at him. Dean meets his gaze desperately and the weight of it blows the air out of Sam’s lungs.

“You’ve saved a lot of lives up here, Dean.”

“Not enough,” he snaps and he sounds devastated, on the verge of bursting at the seams. Sam wants to reach out and grab him, but he’s not sure Dean’s in a place where he’d allow it.

“Dean—”

“I’m just a guy. I don’t des—” He looks away, glaring into the laundry room.

“Not to me,” Sam admits and then he adds, “and apparently not to the man upstairs.”

Dean hunches his shoulders and pouts. Sam wants to find it funny, but all he can do is feel exasperated and swallow, his throat tight.

“Yeah well, I don’t have to like it.”

“If you two are done with your little heart to heart, I could use some help in here,” Bobby calls from the library. Sam looks back at him and watches him drop a stack of books onto the desk.

Dean puts the undrunk beer into the sink and pushes away from the counter. He knocks the back of his knuckles into Sam’s shoulder as he passes and Sam files away the tiny gesture somewhere safe. Time for research.

He’s halfway across the kitchen when Dean stumbles, hands flying up to clutch at his head.

“Dean!” Sam shouts and he covers the distance between them, throwing an arm out to brace Dean before he hits the floor. Distantly, he’s aware of Bobby hurrying over to them.

“Angels,” Dean grits out, his body bowing forward in pain. “Ah fuck, make it stop. Cas, please.”

“What the hell?” Bobby demands.

Sam shakes Dean by the shoulder.

“What about the angels? Dean, what’s happening?” he asks and Dean shakes his head. He tries to shrug out of Sam’s arms, but he tightens his grip

“They’re looking for him,” Dean gasps and he sounds breathless. He tips his head up to look at Sam and there’s blood pouring from his nose. Fear drops Sam’s stomach.

“Jesus,” Bobby mutters.

“I’m fine.” Dean keeps shaking his head, like he’s trying to dislodge something from it. “Gotta… I know, Cas, it’s okay. We’ll go.”

Go?

Dean shoves away from him and gets to his feet. He teeters for a moment and Sam thinks that he’ll pitch backwards to the floor and starts to reach for him again. Dean waves him off and finds his footing. He walks back to the sink and turns on the water, splashing his face. The helplessness hits Sam between the ribs. Is this what Dean had felt when his powers had first manifested?

“Gotta what? Dean, what do you have to do?” Sam asks and this time he’s demanding, trying to get something, anything but half conversations and vague replies. Dean reaches for the kitchen towel on the counter and starts drying his face.

“Dean?” Bobby tries.

“I’m not your son.”

Castiel turns around and Sam forgets how to breathe. He’s still clutching the towel, but he’s looking down at it, mouth pinched, like he’s not quite sure what it’s for.

“Dean… Castiel? Is he?” Sam chokes on the question.

“He’s safe with me,” Castiel answers steadily and he looks up at Sam, pinning him into place with a searching look. “Lilith is attempting to break another seal. Be ready.”

“Lili—?”

There’s a loud whoosh—like a thousand birds taking flight—and the space where Dean had been standing is empty. He yells his brother’s name and looks frantically around the room.

“Balls,” Bobby growls.

Sam pushes past him to search the rest of the house, yelling for Dean, for Castiel. Bobby shouts after him and Sam stops part way up the stairs, chest tight with pain.

“Easy, son,” he murmurs and wraps a hand around Sam’s wrist, pulling him down the stairs. Sam goes, but only because he knows Dean is gone. Again. Bobby presses him down into a chair at the kitchen table and gives him another beer. Sam drinks it numbly, still searching the room, hoping Dean will rematerialize and laugh at him for worrying.

The towel Dean and Castiel had been holding lays crumpled on the floor, still stained with Dean’s blood.

* * *

“How many exorcisms do you know, Bobby?” Sam asks a few days later. He’s slumped on the couch in the library, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders and a book of angel lore digging into his thigh. So far he hasn’t found anything they didn’t already know. Bobby’s put in calls to a few hunters he knows nearby, but so far no one’s gotten back to them.

Dean’s still gone.

Bobby shoots him a look before he answers, “Nothing for booting angels, if that’s what you’re aiming for. Hell, a few days ago, I didn’t even think they needed to possess people. Figured they just showed up looking like the inside of a watch or a burning bush or something.”

Sam snaps the book closed.

“I’m gonna take a drive.”

“Pick up some beer while you’re at it. We’re gonna be at this a while yet.”

The drive doesn’t help his mood, but he’s able to call Ruby and arrange to meet her at a convenience store a few miles outside of town. It’s the most accomplished he’s felt since this started and he feels something almost like relief when he sees her standing on the side of the building. She looks nervous when he gets out of the car and turns to walk towards the back of the building.

Sam follows her, calling out to her, and she whips around to face him. She looks terrified.

“Is it true an angel saved you brother?” she asks.

“You heard.”

“Who hasn’t, Sam?” There’s an edge of hysteria in her voice, eyes blow wide with barely concealed panic. “Is it true?”

“Yeah.” Before he can stop himself, the whole story spills out. The bright light living under Dean’s skin and reaching out to burn demons from their bodies without any consideration for the humans it leaves behind. The fact that his brother’s been dragged off by an angel to God knows where and Sam’s happiness is incandescent, but he’s afraid he’s going to lose his brother to this thing. He wants to beret himself for trusting Ruby with this, but he can’t put it into words with Bobby and he needs to talk to someone. He and Ruby have their secrets already. What’s one more?

“Shit,” she gasps when he finishes talking. “It was nice knowing you, Sam.”

‘Whoa! Hey wait, wait! What?” Sam grabs her by the arm before she can spin away and out of his life.

“I’m a demon, Sam! Angels aren’t gonna care if I’m being helpful. Smite first, ask questions later,” she yells. Sam can see clearly in his mind Dean clasping a hand to Ruby’s face and that white-blue light incinerating her from the inside out. He grips her arm a little tighter and vows to keep her away from Dean when—not if—he comes back.

“I’m not scared of my brother. Or angels.”

She pulls away.

“It’s not just me you have to worry about, Sam. What do you think angels are gonna do when they find out what we’re doing, huh?”

The question slaps him in the face and he chokes on a denial—his brother went to hell for him, he wouldn’t let that happen—but Ruby’s gone before he can get the words out, leaving him alone with the thought that he might know his brother, but he doesn’t know Castiel. The memory of those burned out bodies haunts him.

His cell phone goes off, pulling him out of his thoughts and back into the present. He checks the caller ID before flipping it open and pressing it to his ear.

“Bobby?”

“Get back here quick and pick me up.”

“What’s up?”

“I want to check on those hunters we’re been trying to get a hold of,” Bobby explains. Sam hears him moving around as he talks, getting supplies together. “Haven’t heard back from any of them and that’s a problem. One person don’t call back and I can figure they’re busy, but three days of radio silence from them ain’t normal.”

Sam hurries back to the Impala.

“Anything from Dean?”

Bobby’s sighs.

“We’re on our own here.”

* * *

They find Olivia dead behind a line of salt, her chest ripped open and blood spraying the area around her. Bobby storms out without a word and everything after blurs together. Phone calls and long drives in an ever widening circle. By the time they reach R.C. and Carl’s place, Sam’s pacing around the Impala instead of waiting in the driver’s seat. He goes down his contact list and calls every hunter he knows.

Jo picks up on the fourth ring and Sam lets out a breath so heavy he can see it. He stumbles to a stop. That’s not right. It’s a cool night, but not cold enough for… he turns slowly towards the car. There’s a reflection in the passenger side window behind his shoulder.

“Sam?” Jo’s voice is tiny as he pulls the phone from his ear.

“I’ll call you back,” he says and he snaps the phone shut and turns around. Henriksen is standing right behind him, staring steadily at him in the dark. He looks alive.

“Hi, Sam,” Henriksen says casually. “It’s been a while.”

“Are you—?”

He needs to keep him talking.

“Dead? Oh yeah. Thanks to you, me and a half dozen innocent people died in that police station,” Henriksen answers and Sam takes a slow step backwards. “You left us there to die, Sam.”

“We didn’t know Lilith was coming.” The excuse sounds exactly like it is. An excuse. Henriksen reaches out, whip fast—Sam reels backwards—and grabs Sam by his jacket and yanks him around, throwing him into the side of the car with the heavy thud.

He scrambles for the handle. The shotgun’s only a foot away on the dashboard where he’d left it. Henriksen gets to him first, grabbing him by his hair and dragging him back. His other hand hits the windows in front of Sam’s face and Sam sees a brand on the back, ugly and red, before he’s pulled back and then slammed face first into the window. The glass cracks.

A gunshot echoes through the air and Sam slumps to the ground with a wheeze of air. Bobby comes running across the lawn toward him and hauls Sam back to his feet.

“You okay?” he demands.

He reaches up gingerly to check his face and tears up, blinking rapidly against the sting of blood running into his eyes.

“Think I broke my nose.”

Bobby claps him on the shoulder and helps him into the passenger seat, accepting the keys when Sam passes them over and tossing Sam’s dropped cell phone into his lap. He shoves it into his pocket and leans forward to start digging around for alcohol wipes and gauze so he can clean his face.

There’s no glass in his eyes, but his forehead and cheek sting from the impact and embedded pieces. It’s too risky to get them out in the dark, so he settles for gritting his teeth and wiping away as much blood as he can before pressing gauze to his forehead until the bleeding stops.

When they get back to the house, Sam slams the car door behind him and the cracked glass shatters and falls into the car, covering the front bench and floor. Someone laughs from the scrapyard. Sam spins, gun lifting toward the dark tower of cars.

“I’ll check it out,” Bobby murmurs and he jerks his head toward the front door of the house.

Sam nods.

The inside of the house is quiet, but when Sam steps into the library, there’s a brunet standing by the desk, smiling at him. He remembers her dying on the floor, choking on her own blood after the exorcism. The gun in his hands goes flying, skittering across the floor in the kitchen until it hits the cabinet.

“Meg.”

She tips her chin up and grins, all teeth.

“Don’t worry, Sam, I’m not a demon.”

“I’m so sorry, we thought—” she flashes across the room and backhands him.

“You didn’t think!” she snarls, standing in front of him. “I was trapped in my own body after that demon jumped me. Do you have any idea what that was like? Screaming for help and no one listing while I watched her murder people.”

Sam backs away towards the fireplace, ankle catching on a pile of books deliberately, so he can stumble back and put more space between them.

“If we’d known—”

“Bullshit, Sam. You and your demon hiding in the dark.” His stomach drops, staring at her in shock. She lashes out at him again, hitting him so hard in the chest that he goes careening back into the floor behind the desk. She stalks closer. “How many innocent people has Ruby burned through for kicks, Sam? Girls just like me. And you don’t send her back to Hell?”

“That’s not… she’s trying to help,” he gasps, pushing himself back with the heel of his boot. Nearly there. “I’m saving people.”

“Oh yeah, you’re a real big hero, Sam.” He reaches behind him carefully, eyes following Meg as she rants above him. She kicks him viciously and he flinches, wrapping his fingers around the fireplace poker. “So willing to trust monsters you’d even let one inside your brother.”

He stops breathing.

“You’re wrong.”

You’ll let him die just like you did me.”

She kicks him in the stomach and reaches down to rip into him with her hands. In the light from the window, Sam sees the mark, same as Henriksen’s, and he swings the poker out of the rack and through her body. The rest of the tools tip over with a crash and Meg’s ghostly form disappears in a wisp of smoke.

He stays on the floor until he catches his breath.

* * *

It takes far too long to find Bobby in the scrapyard, dragged up into one of the cars by a couple of ghosts, but they’re both alive, even if Sam is limping slightly as he pushes open the front door.

“They’re all people we know,” he says, rubbing his side and hoping it’s bruised. At least he’s not laid out on the floor with his chest ripped open. “Meg, Henriksen… those kids.”

Bobby doesn’t confirm anything, but there’s a guilty distant look in his eyes.

“Girls had tattoos,” Bobby says, throwing himself into the chair at the desk and looking at the knocked over fireplace rack. “Know they didn’t have that before.”

“So did Meg and Henriksen, uh,” Sam squints, trying to remember the design and he reaches out a hand as Bobby digs around for paper and pencil. He slides them over silently and Sam leans on the desk and sketches out a rough design. “It was like a brand.”

He angles the paper when it’s complete.

“I may have seen this before. We got to move.”

Bobby starts gathering books off the desk.

“What? Where are we going?”

“Some place safe, idiot.”

He nudges Sam towards the basement and then walks them quickly into a room that Sam knows wasn’t there the last time he was down here. Stepping over the raised lip of the door, he lowers the shotgun and stares at the curved walls and the pentagram protected light.

“Bobby, is this…?” he asks, feeling a grin starting as he scrapes his knuckles against the wall, feeling the rough texture against them.

“Solid iron,” Bobby grunts, hauling the heavy door shut and locking it from the inside. “Completely coated in salt. Hundred percent ghost proof.”

“It’s a panic room.”

Bobby shrugs. “I had a weekend off.”

Sam leans over, puts a hand on his knee and laughs breathlessly.

Safely tucked away from the spirits out for their blood, Sam lets Bobby look for answers while he pulls out some of the equipment and starts making more salt rounds. Whatever happens, they’re always going to need more ammunition.

“Found it,” Bobby says finally and he launches off into an explanation that leaves Sam feeling cold. The rising of the witnesses. Signs of the apocalypse. It’s… almost too much. He has to put the shell down. It tips over, rolling along the grain and spilling salt all over the table.

“Okay, so what do we do now?”

“We survive our friends out there,” Bobby answers and he motions Sam over to the table so they can put together a plan. The spell to put the witnesses down is simple, aside from the fact that they need the fireplace in the library and half their ingredients are upstairs.

* * *

“What else do we need, Bobby?” he asks once they’re back upstairs and he’s finished pouring a line of salt around the desk. Bobby’s halfway to the kitchen for ingredients and he jerks a thumb up toward the ceiling as he walks.

“Red hex box in the linen closet upstairs.”

Sam bolts up the stairs without looking back, gun firmly in hand. He starts pulling open doors. The half finished guest room he and Dean used to share, the locked door they dare open, and—he jerks one of the doors halfway down on left open and sees neatly folded towels and sheets—the linen closet.

“If you’d told me about this, Sam, maybe I wouldn’t be dead.”

He nearly drops the box, the voice achingly familiar behind him. This can’t be happening. He shoves the box back into place and looks back towards the stairs. Jess smiles at him, brittle and unhappy.

“I thought not telling you would…” he falters, squeezes his eyes shut and breathes. When he opens them again, she’s frowning at him. “I thought it would keep you safe.”

“That turned out great,” she scoffs, rolling her eyes and starting toward him. “Do it, Sam. Shoot me.”

“Jess. Please.”

And then she’s not quite Jess anymore, energy pouring off her as she reaches out to grab him and rip his heart from his chest. Sam stumbles back a step, face wet as he raises the gun up, closes his eyes, and pulls the trigger.

* * *

Sam doesn’t sleep that night.

He folds himself up onto the couch and picks up the lore book he’d been reading yesterday and tries to pretend the words are blurry because he’s tired. It doesn’t quite work, but he hasn’t gotten any water on the page, so he’s succeeding somewhere. The house is mercifully silent except for the singing of insects out in the yard and the hum of the refrigerator.

He scrubs his face. This isn’t getting him anywhere. Maybe he could call Pamela and see if she can help track Dean down. Or send a message. He just wants his damn brother here so they can figure this out. Together.

Between one thought and the next, the air in the library pulls and settles. The hair on the back of Sam’s neck raises and when he looks up, Dean’s leaning back against the front of Bobby’s desk, fingers curled under the edge.

“Dean!”

The book tumbles to the floor as Sam throws himself bodily up onto his feet, closing the space between them in two steps. Dean looks up at him just as Sam reaches him and his eyes widen in alarm when Sam throws his arms around him. Tension coils in Dean’s shoulders and he sways backwards, away from Sam, only to jerk to a stop and go so still that Sam almost believes he’s holding a statue.

Not Dean.

He pushes away from Castiel, clearing his throat and clenching his jaws with a hard swallow as he meets the angel’s steady gaze. Without waiting for the angel to say anything, Sam puts out his hand.

“Normally I’d be really, uh… honored to meet. An angel. You. Especially since you—but,” he manages awkwardly. This is an angel wearing his brother’s skin. This should be a good thing. He wants this to be a good thing.

“Yes, of course. The circumstances of our first meeting were unfortunate,” Castiel says and Sam flinches slightly at the rough gravely quality of his voice, like Dean when he’s trying harder than usual to sound like Dad, but utterly alien with the way it reverberates in the air. He reaches out and takes Sam’s hand in both of his, pressing it between his palms gently. “Excellent job with the witnesses.”

Sam stares.

“Uh, so you knew about that?”

“I,” Castiel hesitates, tilting his head slightly, eyes breaking from Sam’s, “ _we_ were made aware.”

“We? Do you mean Dean?” Castiel nods. “Is he okay?”

Castiel releases his hand and drops his hands back down to the desk, pinning him with a sharp, searching look. Sam drops his eyes to the floor and then Castiel says, “I told you he was safe with me. You have faith—unlike your brother—why do you doubt me?”

“Th-that’s not…” he flounders for the right words. “Where were you?”

“My garrison needed me. Lilith is attempting to break the sixty-six seals. The rising of the witnesses is one of them,” Castiel answers.

“Seals?”

“They’re locks to a cage.”

“What’s in the cage?”

“Lucifer.”

Sam doesn’t question the reality of Lucifer. There’s demons, there’s angels, there’s a God, and of course, the devil exists. Of course. He feels warm from the trembling in his arms and legs.

“Is that why you possessed Dean? To stop Lucifer from being freed?”

Castiel’s been hard to read so far, but he’s in Dean’s body and his reactions are being filtered through Dean’s long learned habits and body language. Sam’s seen the way Dean’s picked up the strange stillness from the angel already, so when Castiel draws back and looks away, Sam spots the look of someone caught.

“Not exactly.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I had… another vessel. I’d been speaking to him for months in preparation for returning to Earth,” Castiel answers and he straightens up. “Dean asked me to stay with him and I could not deny him. He’s told you this.”

Sam scoffs. “He told me angels needed consent.”

“We are not like demons.”

“Right. Sure, okay, so Dean asked you to stay and you just decide possessing him was the way to do it? You couldn’t have gone for your other vessel and come back, maybe? It would have been really nice if Dean had been here while hunters were being torn apart the last couple of days, Castiel.”

“There are more battles than this one. More seals. As a hunter, you should understand that there’s a much bigger picture here.” Castiel stalks over to him, chin tilted up and voice low when he adds, “Show me the respect I deserve. I am not your enemy.”

“Okay, okay,” Sam says, backing away from Castiel and flinching away from the quelling look the angel is directing at him. “I just… What now?”

“I’m,” Castiel narrows his eyes, looking peevishly at the room, “I’m stationed here. To watch you. And Dean.”


	3. Castiel Experiences a Microaggression

Six of Castiel’s siblings are dead and the seal broken and he doesn’t know how Lilith or her demons have managed it. The reconnaissance performed before the battle, his orders, his own battle strategy. He examines all of them in his mind, searching for the flaw, and finding nothing. This should have worked. They should have won. Yet here he stands in the middle of a street in San Antonio, in front of the building where Lilith raised the Witnesses in flames.

The fault must lie with him. He lifts his borrowed hand to Dean’s chest and the amulet hanging from around their neck, the metal digging into the meat of his palm. This can’t continue.

He can feel Uriel’s displeasure at their failure manifesting itself in the way his vessel’s shoulders rise and fall, wings stirring up the debris around them. Arariel is tight lipped and grim before them. She plucks at the material of her white gown, a restless, nervous gesture that Castiel knows he should reach out and stop. Take her hands in his own and offer his strength.

The burnt pattern of Nanael’s wings stain the pavement under Arariel’s knees.

“Our orders were wrong,” Uriel reasons.

“No.”

“Castiel,” he presses, “if you wou—”

“Our orders are not at fault here, Uriel,” he insists automatically. “This is my mistake.”

Arariel makes a sound and shoves herself up from the ground, turning to face them.

“I agree with Uriel,” she says firmly.

“Arariel, it’s not our place to question Heaven’s orders.”

“Hey, you’re one to talk,” Balthazar breaks in, forced cheer in his voice. He slides the last of the blades from their dead siblings up his sleeve. “I thought we were told to save the Righteous Man, not put him on.”

Castiel shoots a quelling look at him. “I don’t have to explain myself to you, Balthazar.”

“No, but you certainly do to me,” Zachariah says genially from just behind Castiel’s right shoulder. “Arariel, Uriel, why don’t you two return to the garrison for now. Balthazar? Take those blades to the arsenal.”

The other three angels fly off and Castiel draws his wings into a neutral position at his back. Zachariah circles around him, face splitting with a toothy smile that makes Castiel hesitate to offer up an explanation.

“Now, I happen to know that you were testing a vessel in Pontiac before your garrison was assigned to pull,” Zachariah drops his left hand onto Castiel’s shoulder with a heavy clap that resonates through his grace and into his true form, “Dean here out of Hell.”

“I was,” Castiel confirms carefully.

“Good, then you can put this one back where it belongs.”

Zachariah pulls his hand back, the matter settled, and starts to walk away, wings pulling up in preparation for flight, and Castiel can’t let him leave. He can’t disobey, but perhaps he can convince Zachariah. His brother has always been reasonable. His boots scuff the pavement when he steps forward.

“Zachariah—”

“Is there something wrong with my orders, Castiel?”

“No,” he answers firmly. The heart in his chest races, muscles aching in a way he doesn’t understand and he’s certain Dean must feel it down in the place where Castiel has hidden him away. “Dean asked me to stay with him. If I leave now. When he’s still trying to decide if he trusts me—us, then it may make him unwilling to cooperate with us later. Especially with the Host’s concerns over his brother’s connection with Azazel and his extracurricular activities. We still don’t know his endgame.”

“While he’s still trying to trust you?” Zachariah repeats suspiciously and Castiel freezes, caught.

“I’ve been… allowing him to maintain control over his body when I’m not using it,” he answers. “Treating him as a normal vessel would be detrimental to gaining his trust.”

The words settled uncomfortably in Castiel’s arms and back, his vessel’s back, and into his grace, curling and twisting into knots. Zachariah inhales unnecessarily through his nose and closes his eyes. Castiel realizes that he doesn’t know what he’ll do if this isn’t enough to convince Zachariah to change his orders, but he feels his wings readying to move him.

“Of course,” Zachariah says finally and he seems barely contained within his vessel, on the verge of lashing out, but unwilling to do so. Castiel appreciates his control. “And your trust, Castiel? Your faith?”

Castiel drops his eyes obediently to the ground, forces his wings to relax into a vulnerable position, and says, “Unwavering. God’s will is mine.”

Zachariah considers him for a long stretch of time.

“Good, good, we can use this to our advantage for now. Keep Dean Winchester under your thumb, Castiel. Don’t tell him anything unless we tell you to. Earn his trust. Watch his brother. We’re considering options for dealing with him and Azazel. Uriel will report to you. Until you hear otherwise, he’ll be taking over the garrison while you’re gone.”

Castiel snaps his head up.

“Gone?”

Zachariah’s expression sinks into something neutral and reasonable and he grips Castiel’s shoulder amiably.

“Consider it a temporary reassignment. Oh, don’t worry, we’ll have you back on the field soon enough. God has big plans for Winchester.”

He’s gone an instant later and Castiel stares at the space where he stood for a moment before vanishing as well.

* * *

“You should have brought him to me, Zachariah.”

“I’m not going to risk you damaging him before we’re ready. We’ve only broken two seals and Michael’s angry enough over Castiel touching his things without you frying his cortex a second time. We tread lightly or this whole apocalypse falls apart.”

“And when Lilith is dead? What will you do then? Castiel is a liability.”

“You’ll have your chance, Naomi. For now, we do this my way. There’s more than one way to temper a sword.”

* * *

The sensation of Castiel taking control of his body is almost as jarring the second time as it was the first. Like falling asleep while underwater, the world fading into muffled echoes until there’s nothing, the ringing of angel voices still echoing in his head and blood in his mouth. When he wakes up, instead of the Alamo, he’s back in Bobby’s house and Sam is an arm’s reach away. There’re bandages on his forehead and cheek and his nose is swollen from a break that Dean knows wasn’t there when he left.

“What the hell happened?” he demands, reaching out to cup his brother’s face in one hand. Castiel stirs in the corner of his mind, twisting, smoothing down his arm and into his hand, icy hot under his skin and then nothing but warmth against his palm.

Light pours from his hand and his vision whites out briefly, focus slipping as Cas nudges him gently to the side. He feels Sam flinch and when he’s pulled firmly back into himself again, Sam is blinking at him in surprise. Dean pulls his hand away and the bruises and lacerations are gone.

“Did you just—?” Sam asks, touching his face gingerly.

“That was all Cas,” he answers quickly. “What the hell did I miss?”

He’s heard about the seals and Lucifer from Castiel, but Sam fills in him in on what he and Bobby were going through on the ground while Dean was half a country away. Thirty hunters are dead and Dean grieves every damn one with a barked curse, Castiel’s guilt over the lost battle a sharp note in the silence that follows. Ellen and Jo are alive. Both still scattered to the winds somewhere out of reach. Dean wonders if Sam told them about him being alive yet.

About Cas.

He gets them both beers while Sam talks about Meg trapped in her own body, screaming for help. It tastes like too many things at once to be enjoyable. There’s something Sam’s not saying in the careful way he talks about Meg and the way he watches him when he thinks Dean isn’t paying attention. He puts his beer down and doesn’t pick it up again.

“This might be a little above our paygrade,” Sam says eventually, voice raw and tight with old grief. He’s settled back into place on the couch, neck on the armrest and beer tucked between his hip and the back cushion. Dean’s laid out on the floor, staring at the ceiling and wondering why the beer hasn’t even given him a buzz. He can’t even tell he drank it.

_ Your body is being maintained by my Grace. _

The answer makes him go cold. He doesn’t remember the last time he felt human. He was Sam’s shield when he was four, his father’s God damn blunt instrument as soon as he could hold a gun, and forty years is so long. He knows the taste of sulfur and blood intimately and wonders frantically if his eyes were black the first time Castiel saw him.

The ceiling above him is replaced with icy cold flames and he hears a Hellhound growl, low and dangerous.

_ Dean—! _

“Don’t,” he chokes out, the sound catching on his teeth. His vision clears with a rush of white blue heat and he can’t tell if it’s memory or Castiel, but he shoves Cas back and away from him with a vicious flare of anger anyway. The angel’s presence fades to white noise and then silence and Dean knows he’s still there, lurking somewhere he can’t feel him. He grits his teeth and asks Sam, “Anything else I should know?”

“Uh,” Sam says eloquently and Dean hears him swallow down the last of his beer. “One of the windows on the car might be broken.”

“Sonuvabitch, really, Sam?” he grouses, sitting up and flinging one of his discarded socks in Sam’s direction. His brother splutters in disgust and flings the offending garment away.

“What the hell, Dean, gross! You’ve been wearing the same clothes for like three days,” Sam screeches, bitch face firmly replacing the shattered expression from earlier, and Dean grins and reaches for the other one.

* * *

When it’s light enough outside, Dean goes out and starts sweeping the glass out of the Impala. He shoves an AC/DC tape into the deck and cranks the volume all the way up, pulls on gloves to keep glass from his fingers, and gets lost in the utterly mundane task of car repair.

There’s still a scattering of shards glittering on the leather when he’s done and he gets Bobby’s shop vac and an extension cord. Castiel slips into his awareness, brimming with idle curiosity that Dean figures is more about this being the only thing he’s got to look at from behind Dean’s eyes than any real interest in car detailing.

Not that it stops him from opening his mouth and explaining what he’s doing. Even if Castiel isn’t another person standing around watching him work, Dean still feels the instinctive need to fill the silence between them. The angel nudges questions at him sporadically while Dean sorts through the shit that’s collected in the glovebox, wondering about the importance of every item Dean puts back versus the pile of old receipts and wrappers that wind up in the trash.

Dean spends five minutes scrubbing at a blood stain on the dashboard before Castiel hovers at the edge of his mind, asking permission to try.

“You clean now?” he quips.

There’s a flicker of annoyance and in the span of one blink the stain is gone. In fact, the damn dashboard looks brighter and cleaner than Dean’s ever seen it. As if forty years of built up dirt and blood and sun damage have been lifted.

“Fucking show off.”

_ I have very little to do while I await orders. _

Dean changes tapes and runs his fingers along the dash.

“Me and Sam’ll get back on the road soon as we find a job. Plenty to do then, but we got to lay out some ground rules,” he says and grimaces when Castiel flickers in confusion.

Instead of having that conversation, whatever that conversation even is, Dean shrugs wildly and hauls himself out of the car so he can replace the window.

Sam appears to lurk at the front of the hood while Dean is carefully slotting the new window into place, singing along to Since I’ve Been Loving You when he’s not explaining some fiddly step to Cas.

“You’re teaching him car stuff now?” Sam asks after Dean leans over to twist the volume down. There’s a tense draw to his shoulders and his jaw is clenched and Dean opens his mouth to make a crack about Sam getting jealous, but the narrow look Sam in giving him stops him.

So much for working Sam’s shit out.

“He’s hanging around inside my head. He’s gonna wind up figuring it out anyway,” he says defensively. “Not like it’s a secret.”

Except maybe it is. The Impala has been their home since they were kids and Dean’s baby since Dad handed the keys over to him with a pat on the back and a stern warning to treat her like a lady. It took him until a few months before he died to start teaching Sam and now he’s a few days out of the grave with Castiel’s power clinging to his fingers and yeah, okay. “What’s your problem?”

But getting it doesn’t mean he’s going to let Sam be a bitch about it. If he wants to have a problem than he’s either gonna use his words so they can hash this shit out, or he can get over himself and let it the fuck go.

“Nothing! Forget it, Dean. Bobby’s making breakfast,” he says and yep, the Winchester Method is good too. “You haven’t eaten anything since—”

“Being part angel means I don’t need to eat.”

Sam lifts his chin and frowns, worry narrowing his mouth and Dean can see the gears turning in his brother’s mind before something clicks into place with a twitch of his nose and eyebrows.

“Okay, Dean.”

Sam nods and turns back to the house and Dean scoffs, kicking up gravel with the heel of one boot when he shifts to turn the music back on.

He checks the window over one last time and settles into the passenger seat when he’s satisfied and let’s a few minutes of silence go by before working up the nerve to say, “So, uh, the eating thing.”

Castiel focuses on him.

“Not sleeping either.”

_ You are still human, Dean. _

“Not talking about that,” he says firmly. No, they’re not doing that, now or ever. He’s not having a heart to heart about his humanity with the voice in his head. “I want to know if there’s anything else you’re messing with because, uh, we gotta have a long talk if you shut me down completely. Plumbing wise.”

_ What does plumbing have to do with this? _

Dean rolls his eyes skyward.

“Trying to figure out how hands on I can get until you figure out this timeshare shit. I’m not gonna have you lurking around getting your rocks off watching me in the shower. It’s creepy.”

_ Oh. Well, if you wish to masturbate, Dean, I am indifferent to human sexuality. _

“Cas,” he says carefully. “You missed that point by about a mile.”

_ Then be clearer with your questions. _

Irritation swirls through him and Dean grinds his teeth together.

“Private time,” he spits out finally, wiping his palm off on one knee and shoving himself up out of the Impala and back to his feet. Talking to Castiel is like trying to explain breathing to a rock, Jesus Christ. “There a way you can, I don’t know, go into standby mode or something.”

Castiel pulses in confusion and Dean scrubs his fingers through his hair.

“You put me to sleep when you went all hi ho angel-o in my body, right, and last night you fucking disappeared off my radar after… I couldn’t feel you at all. Where the hell were you?”

_ Angels normally maintain full control of their vessels. You weren’t able to sense me because I had withdrawn into a part of you that you aren’t able to sense. At least not when you’re awake. There’s no way for me to… ‘standby’, as you put it. _

“Hey, no, let’s get one thing straight. I am not your vessel. You’re riding shotgun,” he hisses, kicking the bucket of trash and glass hard enough that it rattles and threatens to tip over before rocking back onto its base. “Phenomenal cosmic powers. No fucking privacy.”

_ If this is too much for you… _

“Just keep your wings to yourself. Got it?”

Confusion curls through his skull.

_ Where else would I keep my wings? _

Dean realizes he might be making a bigger deal of this than is strictly necessary. It’s a damn small price to pay to carry a figurative nuclear arsenal against demons around with him. He can deal with this.

* * *

“So get this,” Sam announces in the middle of the afternoon, cornering Dean in the upstairs bathroom. Instead of testing Castiel's promise to count the tiles on the wall or whatever, Dean’s crouched on the floor installing a new sink. “There’s been a bunch of demon signs in Jefferson City.”

Sam shoves his laptop into Dean’s face and lets him look at the electrical storm map. It could be naturally occurring, but Castiel stirs up while he reads and Dean finds himself nodding and passing the laptop back up.

“Yeah, okay, we can head out in an hour. I’m nearly done here and it’s, uh,” he pauses, thinking quickly, “seven hours maybe. We could make it there before midnight.”

“Maybe yeah,” Sam says with a shrug. His throat clicks, shoes scuffing the tiles next to Dean’s leg as Dean settles back under the sink with the wrench. “Listen, Dean…”

“What?”

Dean doesn’t want to have this conversation right now. He pulls the wrench a little more viciously than necessary and has to jerk back to avoid clocking himself in the face.

“Never mind.”

Sam retreats and Dean relaxes a little. He and Bobby have been a pain in the ass all day, lurking when they think Dean won’t notice, but he’s always been a paranoid asshole and Hell only made it worse. Add a hyper vigilant angel on his shoulder and Dean knows they keep watching him.

“Good talk,” he sighs.

* * *

Seven hours and change after leaving Bobby’s, they pull into the parking lot of a motel on the outskirts of Jefferson City. Dean lets the car roll to a stop outside the office so Sam can slide out and get them a room. They haven’t talked much, Sam buried in one of the books he’d taken from Bobby’s house, which, weird as hell. Bobby’s always been so protective of the books in his home and there’s no telling when they’ll be back around to his place.

Dean considers taking a look at what Sam’s reading, but Sam’s ducking out of the office with a pair of room keys.

“Our cash reserves are running low,” he slides back into the passenger seat and points Dean toward their room so Dean can park. “We passed a pool hall a few blocks back that’s probably still open.”

“Nah, I got it. You can study more or whatever.”

He hoists himself out of the car, slamming the door behind him as he swings around to the trunk to grab their bags. Castiel stirs for the first time in hours from whatever dark place he was lurking and cool relief pours down his spine and toward his aching knee.

_ I find your car extremely claustrophobic. _

“Get used to it,” he quips and Sam peers at him. “Cas doesn’t like driving.”

Sam shakes his head, smiling a little.

“Bet he can’t really stretch his wings in a car, Dean,” Sam says thoughtfully. “Do you think he could have flown us here?”

Cas hums appreciatively and Dean rolls his eyes and hauls their bags out of the trunk, tossing Sam’s over to him.

“This body’s a no fly zone until further notice.”

“Okay, Dean. Hey, listen, are you sure you wanna go tonight? I don’t mind,” Sam asks when they get into the room and Dean starts looking around. He flips the blankets up on the corner of his bed and squints at the sheets before pulling those up and looking at the mattress. The last thing they need is bedbugs. Or hex bags.

“Gotta make sure I’m not getting rusty and Cas can learn something more interesting than harp music.”

_ I don’t have a harp. _

Sam drops his bag onto the far bed while Dean shrugs into his jacket, checking he’s got his wallet and cash on him before offering Sam a salute and walking back out.

* * *

Castiel has been to places like this before. Humans gathering together for drinks and games is not something new, though the game they’re playing isn’t familiar. He hovers near the surface of Dean’s consciousness, observing from behind his eyes and reaching out around the room to learn their surroundings. As a hunter, Dean sweeps the room to check for obvious dangers. No one stands out. There’s a pair of vampires at a table in the middle of the room, but Castiel doesn’t bring them to Dean’s attention the way he did the demons in the diner.

They’re clean of human blood and only here to enjoy themselves.

A woman ducks in front of Dean and is nearly bowled over in the process when Dean is just a little too quick for her to get out of the way in time. The drink she’s holding sloshes over the rim of the glass to the floor and all over her hand, but Dean reaches out to steady her arm by the elbow.

“Let me buy you a replacement,” he offers with a smile and Castiel can feel his interest in her, but is distracted by her discomfort at Dean’s hand on her elbow and too friendly smile.

“It’s fine,” she insists with a laugh and Castiel wants to ask why she’s laughing when she’s so clearly afraid, but Dean pulls his hand back with an apologetic nod, leaning out of her space.

“Sure thing.”

She relaxes and leaves, half worried that Dean might still follow her back to her table.

_ She was uncomfortable. _

Dean nods and heads in the opposite direction she went, towards the bar. Castiel listens curiously to Dean thoughts, a swirl of images and vague memories of women he’s been with in the past, while he waits for the bartender to make his way over.

“Not everyone’s here for a hook up,” Dean says lowly now that he’s certain no one is nearby to overhear him talking to Castiel.

_ You don't need to speak out loud to me. _

“You reading my thoughts?” Dean asks and he’s tense, the same anger that had him pushing Castiel away the other night running through him again along the corona of his soul. Castiel flicks his wings and pulls them away from where he has them curved against Dean’s shoulders, uncertain. Dean sighs and there’s a tremor of emotion that Castiel can’t untangle. “You ever play pool?”

_ No. _

Dean waits until the bartender brings him a beer. It’s cool and soothing, but the taste breaks down just enough to make it yeasty and heavy on his tongue. It’s better than the beer at Bobby’s though and that seems to cheer Dean up a little as he looks for an empty table.

He doesn’t explain the game to Castiel, just starts a game by himself, and asks one of the servers to bring him another beer when he finishes the first one. By the time he’s started his third, Castiel thinks he has a grasp of the basic idea of the game, though he’s not certain of the rules being used at the other tables.

_ I’d like to try. _

“Yeah, sure. Try to get the six in the corner pocket,” Dean says, gesturing to the far left corner from where they’re standing. He lets Castiel take control and the room settles into something a little more physical as Castiel’s grace reflects briefly off the bottle still in his hand where it flashes behind Dean’s eyes.

He brings it to his mouth—and it is his mouth, for the moment—and enjoys his awareness of Dean’s body. The steady beat of the heart under his ribs, the smoke filled air that he breathes into his borrowed lungs, and Dean, pure and bright within Castiel’s grace.

Castiel sets the beer down so he can pick up the cue, eyeing the table critically. Dean’s mind buzzes impatiently, thoughts a flickering distraction that makes Castiel want to grasp the threads and lose himself in them trying to puzzle out the connections. He leans over the table instead and contemplates the best way to make the shot Dean has given him.

It’s almost simple once he figures out the balance and weight of the stick. He bounces the six off the edge of the table and sinks it into the corner and Dean colors in surprise.

“Not bad,” a pleasant voice interrupts Castiel’s thoughts and he straightens up and looks at the human that’s approached the table. His soul is bright enough, but there’s dishonesty hovering at the edges of his thoughts that makes Castiel squint at him, trying to get a better look at his intentions. “Need a few bucks for another beer before last call. Want to play a game for ten?”

** He’s trying to hustle you. **

Dean thrums incandescent with glee and Castiel puzzles over what he means.

_ Why would he do that? _

** Because he has no idea who he’s dealing with. Say yes. **

“Yes,” he says automatically and the man lifts an eyebrow at him and then shrugs, offering to set the table back up if Castiel will slide over the balls.

“Name’s Will. You from around here?”

Castiel watches him curiously as he breaks, pulling his shot at the last moment so none of the balls sink.

** Dude, you want to keep playing, make some damn small talk or he’s gonna think there’s something wrong with you. **

_ He’s trying to deceive us. _

** Yeah. That’s the point. **

_ Why? _

** Because money. Just play. I’ll tell you what to do. **

“I’ve never been here before,” Castiel settles on saying, a little more quickly than he wants, but Will is looking at him expectantly, waiting for him to speak. He walks around the table, Dean’s thoughts—the three sinking into the middle pocket—an easy guide, the rules of the game falling into place with each shot.

“You got a name, buddy?” Will asks after Castiel misses a shot.

“Castiel.”

“The hell kinda name is that?”

Castiel levels a steady look at him and answers, “Mine.”

Their first game ends with Castiel ricocheting the eight ball off the rim and into a pocket and Will, predictably, according to Dean, offers a second game to win back the ten he just lost.

Castiel wins the second game as well and then Will sinks two solids when he breaks the third game and laughs, lying about it being luck. Dean hum with amusement and Castiel brightens in response. He doesn’t understand the point of this at all, but Dean’s pleasure over his stilted attempts at conversation and the obvious hustle Will is trying to pull is beautiful.

He watches Will decide his next shot and the point of the game becomes a little clearer to him. This isn’t only about skill. It’s a game of strategy and if not for Dean’s guidance and his own ability to see and determine the angles of each shot before he takes it, he would be an easy target.

But Will’s misjudgment on who—and what—he’s playing against gets him in the end and Castiel winds up five hundred dollars richer. Will congratulates him with a laugh and hands over the bills with only a little resentment before leaving Castiel alone at the table with Dean.

** You totally Poolhall Junkied that guy. That was awesome. **

_ I don’t understand that reference. _

Dean sparks with exasperation and nudges at Castiel, wanting back in control of his body. Castiel slips back and feels Dean shake himself out, cracking his neck and rolling his shoulders, sinking comfortably back into his body in a way that Castiel hasn’t a hope of mimicking. He twirls the pool cue through the air and moves the remaining billiard balls on the table, sliding the white one back towards him.

Castiel curls his wings back around Dean’s shoulders and waits to see what Dean’s going to do.

“Okay, walk me through that shot,” Dean says, pitching his voice low enough that his voice won’t carry through the nearly empty hall.

Castiel focuses on the parts of himself and his grace tucked into the spaces between Dean’s atoms and extends his power outward. He moves Dean’s body, bending him over the table and fixing his grip on the pool cue. Dean’s thoughts fragment and for a moment Castiel worries memories of Hell might be surfacing.

“Uh, Cas?”

Dean remembers holding a woman from behind in a bar, dick pressed against her ass as he whispered instructions in her ear. Bending her over the table and into the shot. Bending her over the edge of a bed later that night.

There’s a flush of heat up Dean’s back and neck that settles low between his legs. Castiel murmurs an apology and gets a grunt in return. The anger he expects isn’t there, but Dean’s confused, thoughts spinning around their conversation in the car and Castiel releases his hold on Dean and sinks back into himself.

_ Shoot. _

Dean’s hands are shaking slightly and the cue ball doesn’t quite go where they were aiming. Three of the four balls sink into their respective pockets, the last spinning lazily after ricocheting across the table.

Castiel praises him anyway and Dean’s face flushes.

* * *

The mood after they leave the hall isn’t so bad. Dean’s still riding the buzz of arousal and firmly ignoring the confused panic. It was just the memory of a good night a few years ago and not… whatever the hell Cas was doing. He doesn’t think the angel even knew what he was doing and Dean’s not about to ask him either, so he’s happy to let their mutual good moods take them back to the motel.

It’s sort of nice feeling this good so soon after Hell anyway.

Halfway from the car to the door, Castiel grabs him and hauls his body to a stumbling stop. Wings flare out behind him with an audible flutter of feathers and then wrap around him and what the hell? It’s the second or third time tonight Dean’s sure he’s spotted them, but unlike the vague shadows from before, the damn things are nearly opaque now. If he weren’t already reaching for his gun, he might have reached out to touch one of them.

“What the hell?”

_ Sam’s gone. _

His stomach drops and he feels Castiel fluttering at the edges of his brain and the high pitched sound from the gas station and the kitchen makes him wince.

“Where?”

_ I’m not sure. My brothers and sisters won’t tell me. Uriel is waiting for me in the room. _

Dean doesn’t know who Uriel is, but he’s pretty sure it’s one of Castiel’s siblings. Which means there’s an angel in his motel room. The motel room his brother isn’t in when he should be. Anger makes him pull his gun out. He doubts it’ll work, but that’s not going to stop him from burying a bullet between Uriel’s teeth if he doesn’t tell him where Sam’s gone.

_ Dean, I need to take control. _

“Like hell,” he snaps and he shoves a hand into the wing directly in front of him and it snaps back with a slither of alarm from Castiel and the appendages fade away when Dean unlocks the door and opens it to find a stranger standing in the middle of the room.

The man gazes at Dean and his lips curl up in barely contained disgust as he looks Dean up and down. Like he’s something he found on the bottom of his shoe. It’s not a look Dean sees directed his way often, but it makes his anger just a little sharper.

“Where the hell is my brother?” he demands, not giving a single shit for introductions.

_ Dean, you’re being unreasonable. _

“Fine!” Dean snaps and Castiel pushes him aside, gripping Dean close and letting him listen in.

“Uriel,” Castiel greets his brother warmly. It’s only been a few days since they last saw each other, but time on Earth moves strangely and being with Dean makes him aware of every moment as it passes, marching firmly forward.

“Enjoying yourself with the mud monkey, Castiel?” Uriel asks and his wings rustle in disdain and Castiel understands the expression on his vessel’s face finally. His relief at seeing his brother cracks. “I can see his filth all over you.”

“Enough,” he warns.

Uriel subsides, but the glitter of anger and blasphemy in his mouth sticks, held back only by his deference to Castiel’s rank.

“New orders.”

Castiel tries not to show his surprise, but it echoes through his body and into Dean’s, eyes widening slightly and he nods jerkily and asks, “What has God commanded of me, Uriel?”

“You know what Sam Winchester is becoming, brother. It’s time Dean did too.”

**Author's Note:**

> There's a [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3tjVqDWrkg0PNCfXu4siJa?si=pWQciQykSliIWTMprnohYQ) for this fic on Spotify. Feel free to check it out.
> 
> You can find me over at [tumblr](https://kweh-not-wark.tumblr.com/). I'm also on discord hanging around in the [Profound Bond server](https://discord.gg/profoundbond) (18+ only) if you want to come meet some awesome Destiel nerds.


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